Splitting Hairs
by AEM
Summary: read on! gets h/d, Obviously.
1. in the beginning

.  
  
Harry awoke with a start. He was sweating and cold at the same time, shivering under the damp blankets.  
  
What had he been dreaming about? He felt shaken and tired, the same as he'd been for the past week. But...he'd just woken up, hadn't he? He sifted through garbled dream sequences. Nothing. He tried to pin down his present mood. He felt...bereft. Like he'd been snatched away from something nice, near completion. But what? Harry couldn't for the life of him remember. He sighed softly as he snuggled back into the covers, angry with himself for some reason.  
  
He lay in complete darkness, and the air was absolutely still. He realised his head hurt. No sound could penetrate the heavy drapes around his bed, and he lay making no movement besides the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed consciously calmed breaths, letting the thickness of the air around him build until it was nearly unbearable. He was playing a game with himself; he squeezed his eyes shut, counting to ten, and forced himself to still, until he could no longer breathe. Harry whimpered.  
  
Then he jumped up, yanked open the drapes, taking a huge gasp of air, smiling as relief rush through his veins. He breathed deeply and quickly, and calmed himself, listening for any other movement in the dormitory. He looked up. Ron was sitting at the edge of his own bed, grinning wickedly at something, Harry didn't know what. None of the rest of his dormmates seemed to notice him - Dean had the same expression on his face as Ron, and Neville was also awake, only he looked distinctly uncomfortable.  
  
Then Harry gasped again, but for a very different reason.  
  
He blushed and ducked his head back into his drapes as he made out, through Ron and Dean's unsuccessfully stifled sniggers, the unmistakable sound of something very intense going on in Seamus' bed. But who.? And how.? He buried his head in his pillow, blocking out the unwelcome images that came unbidden into his head. Sound, it appeared, had less inhibitions about getting out than in, and Harry sank (thankfully) back in, head whirling, resolving now to make as little noise as possible within the privacy of his own bed.  
  
Harry ventured out again five minutes later, feeling a little more stable, and, to his relief, Seamus appeared to have been quick. He grinned sheepishly around the dorm, embarrassed for Seamus' sake and then at his own embarrassment. Who is it? He mouthed at Dean, And how did he...?  
  
Dean shrugged, looking all at once hurt that Seamus hadn't let him in on the big secret, completely baffled, and proud that his best friend had pulled off something like this. Harry shook his head at Dean's simplicity - and disregard for rules.  
  
Then Seamus poked his head through the curtain and grinned, looking, Harry thought, remarkably unruffled and...clothed. Clothed? They turned expectantly to him.  
  
"What d'you think, then?"  
  
Four mouths dropped open. Seamus grinned even broader, and retreated back into the drapes, only to emerge seconds later with a small object in his palm. Ron, Harry, Dean and Neville looked warily at each other, wondering what this had to do with anything. Then, deciding to play along, they peered at the object in Seamus' hand. It was a curious little thing, completely square - it looked almost like it was made of a silvery metal, except that beneath its surface some sort of silver liquid was swirling about, and when Seamus turned it this way and that, different shades of brown and purple and green glanced off it.  
  
They watched it nervously.  
  
Seamus leaned down close to it, and murmured, "Revoicera."  
  
Immediately, the silvery object began humming, and the humming gradually grew into a sort of rhythmic heavy breathing, followed by an equally rhythmic thudding sound, and the heavy breathing was cut off as it moaned -  
  
Seamus tapped it once with his wand, and the noises stopped, just as they were getting very loud. He looked around at them all, expecting some sort of reaction, no doubt. Harry found himself blushing again.  
  
"What," whispered Dean reverently, "is that?"  
  
"Not what you're probably thinking, unfortunately," Seamus gave them all a sly grin. "It's a Revoicer."  
  
They looked blankly back at him. Seamus didn't seem to mind, he looked immensely excited about his revelation.  
  
"You know how Muggle bugging devices and things don't work around here?" He raised his voice, warming to his topic now that he was done showing off, "This is a bugging device, only it's magic, see, so it doesn't operate on frequencies or anything. And you can't erase what's been recorded unless it was you who recorded it, which is handy for blackmail." Seamus' eyes twinkled. "I got it in Hogsmeade a week ago, thought I'd reveal it in style..."  
  
"so...it records things?"  
  
Seamus nodded. "And stores them up, yeah."  
  
A look of realisation settled on Ron's face, followed by Dean's - there was, unfortunately, no other word for it - squeal.  
  
"So...what we just heard - you recorded it? From where?"  
  
At this Seamus launched into an animated story about the boys bathroom on the third floor, too eagerly, Harry felt - like he'd been waiting for someone to ask. Harry smiled to himself. He decided not to tell anyone about the strange feeling he'd had when he'd first woken up, dismissing it as some sort of early morning confusion. He nodded to himself. He would start worrying if it, whatever it was, started manifesting itself in other ways. More direct ones. The cheerful mood that morning was too infectious for Harry not to be affected. They fooled about with the Revoicer for a while, until each of them had had a turn with it and mastered handling it, before they finally dragged themselves out of their dormitory and down to the Great Hall for breakfast.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Potions that same afternoon was shaping out to be one of their most memorable. They were learning a Staining Potion and its counter - the aptly named Unstaining Potion. They worked on the Staining Potion first, and were expected to test it on flowers provided by an uncharacteristically sentimental Filch, Snape's reasoning being that they would then have greater motivation to master the Unstaining Potion. Neville had so far managed to melt his ladle on his cauldron, and knock a bowl of peeled Hemseed into the potion, which promptly turned a bright orange and shot out of its cauldron. Midway on its descent over a quivering Ron, Neville, in an effort to improve the situation, shrieked an unintelligible 'Wingardium Leviosa!' and pointed his wand at it; the entire mass of liquid froze, and Ron, instead of turning orange, had to be brought to Madam Pomfrey unconscious.  
  
The lesson, however, continued, although not uneventfully. Snape seemed to take comfort in the fact that both the guilty party and the victim were from Gryffindor, and taking points off a red-faced Neville.  
  
"Longbottom, you have surpassed even yourself," he snapped, as he looked at the dungeon floor, which was littered with what looked like lethal blocks of orange ice.  
  
The potion, though simple in theory, was infinitely trickier to make. Ron was not the only casualty. All around the classroom, potions seethed and blew up, and the walls were streaked with rainbows of colour. The students were no better off. Snape, in particular, looked very colourful indeed, Harry was secretly pleased to see.  
  
By the time the class had got round to making the Unstaining Potion, each student was covered in a veritable kaleidoscope of colour. They'd never had so many cauldrons blow up before, and they'd certainly never had as much fun in a Potions class where everything went wrong - most of their assignments were far less harmless than a Staining Potion. They'd laughed and laughed when they'd looked up from their cauldrons and at each other, and then laughed some more when faced with descriptions of themselves. Snape had lost all authority in the classroom, and, after his threats to take off House Points had been ignored by every offender, was reduced to calling people whose Unstaining Potions had failed to his desk to clean up with his own Potion after the lesson. The Staining Potion that got on material or hair, however, was harder to take off, and would take longer to remove, he said, the thicker and the darker the Stain was. Seamus and Dean had purposely Stained their shirts a bright purple and were clapping each other on the back as they surveyed the other's handiwork, and Lavender was sobbing as she tried to get orange out of her new skirt.  
  
"Harry," whispered Hermione, as she leaned over, laughing, "look at Malfoy!"  
  
Harry turned. Malfoy stood in a corner with a pot of Snape's Unstaining Potion, trying to Unstain in front of a mirror. The potion on his face came off well, but Harry saw that his hair remained jet black, almost the same shade as his own, as Harry's. And then Harry noticed something else, as Malfoy smiled slightly sheepishly at his reflection. Something that made him feel slightly sick inside. With the black hair and the near-human mirth, Harry noticed that Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, looked very fetching indeed.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Ron was back in the Gryffindor common room by evening - Neville's potion, contrary to what everyone thought, had not touched him; he'd fainted.  
  
Sitting in a corner of the room, Harry laughed along with the rest of them as they recounted Potions for Ron, who looked gutted that he'd missed it. But Harry was only listening half-heartedly - the tiredness he'd been feeling had returned full force after the hilarity of the afternoon, and he'd nearly collapsed while walking up the stairs with Hermione and Ginny after dinner. He couldn't understand it - he'd been eating well, sleeping well; nothing had changed in his day-to-day activities. Other than the dreams he couldn't remember and a vague feeling of unease when he woke up in the mornings, he couldn't think of anything unusual that he'd been doing. Perhaps the dreams had something to do with it.after all, he'd had visions in his sleep before. But these dreams were not terrible, or frightening. They were actually pleasant, Harry knew that from the reluctance he felt when he woke up.  
  
What Harry feared most was the interference of Dark Magic, this was the only explanation he could think of. But Voldemort no longer had anything to fear from him, and Harry knew better than to overestimate himself in the eyes of his enemy. Perhaps it was someone else then...but who? And why? Why would anyone want him drained of energy, unable to concentrate? It was too difficult to think, Harry thought tiredly, and his eyes drifted shut.  
  
"...Didn't you, Harry?"  
  
He jerked awake.  
  
"What?"  
  
Seamus was grinning at him, the whole common room was.  
  
"Your potion exploded right in Snape's face. Did you see him at dinner? His hair was still streaked in red!"  
  
Harry nodded and smiled. Thoughts of Potions class led to thoughts of Malfoy with his black hair. The image made him smile. He imagined standing behind Malfoy and running his fingers through his hair, watching his expression change in the mirror. He imagined dipping his head and kissing Malfoy just behind his ear. He imagined Draco's whispered groan as he tightened his hands around his waist and drew him against his body...  
  
He opened his eyes and met Hermione's questioning ones, and was suddenly immensely thankful for the cushion on his lap. He saw Hermione look at him oddly, and while everyone else chatted, she crawled up beside him on the armchair and whispered, "Are you alright, Harry?"  
  
"I'm alright, just really..."  
  
He yawned.  
  
"...tired."  
  
"You look tired. And you nearly fell down the stairs today, if me and Ginny hadn't caught you..." she shook her head softly. Then she hesitated, as though not knowing where to start. "You've been like that the whole week, you know. Is something wrong?"  
  
Harry shook his head sleepily.  
  
"I'm fine, Herm. Just need to sleep, that's all."  
  
"Ok, but if there's anything at all..."  
  
"Thanks, I know."  
  
Then Hermione grinned, un-Hermionely.  
  
"That was some Potions class, huh?" she said, before running off to join Ron.  
  
"Yeah," Harry murmured, as he closed his eyes again, "yeah, some Potions class..."  
  
. 


	2. the revoicer's secret

.  
  
Harry was in, of all places, the library.  
  
"Alright, now, pay attention," Hermione was saying, "We're looking for something to do with Sleeping Spells, or Draining Spells. Maybe dreams, at this point my best guess is that someone's trying to control you, or do something to you at the least, through your dreams."  
  
After another week of walking around feeling - and looking, people had started to tell him - like the living dead, Harry had confided to Hermione that he was getting worried. He'd fallen asleep during classes, and the headaches he'd developed were getting almost more than he could bear. Even Mcgonagall had noticed, and sent him to Madam Pomfrey, but she found nothing wrong. He was sleepy every waking moment, had dizzy spells, and while he slept his dreams had started to become disturbing, very real. The worst part was that locating the problem had become a race against time: Gryffindor had a Quidditch match against Slytherin in two days, one that would guarantee their eviction from House Cup running if they didn't win.  
  
Hermione had listened patiently to the description of that strange feeling when he woke up every morning, and of how he couldn't work, couldn't concentrate on anything because of how tired he was, and then, in a fit of originality, dragged him off to the library.  
  
He leaned his head on his arm.  
  
"Hermione, can we do this some other...other time?" he stumbled over his words stifling a yawn. His eyes were shut.  
  
"Harry!" Hermione trilled, "Look at yourself! We can't do this some other time!" She lowered her voice. "What if there is no other time! And if you don't snap out of it before the match, we're done for!"  
  
She looked genuinely anxious, and Harry felt some of her urgency wake him up a little. He knew he should be worried, but he was so tired.she was right, he wouldn't see the snitch until it flew up his nose. He tried to stay alert. He owed her that much, after all her concern. He saw her shuffling between the shelves, stacking books on her arms. His head hurt, he felt awful. He groaned.  
  
"What's the matter?" She rushed back to his side, scattering her books on the table. Harry had the distinct feeling that besides being concerned, she had a slightly academic slant to her worry for him. "What's the matter?"  
  
"Head hurts." He bit out.  
  
"Well, that's not a very recent development, is it?" she confirmed Harry's earlier suspicion. "Look, why don't you start on these books, and I'll look for some more."  
  
Harry smiled a bit at her brusqueness. She was trying to stay on top of things, and he was grateful. He was also grateful, and not surprised, that he understood and wasn't hurt.  
  
He looked at the books she'd picked. The Empowering Dream and How To Counter It, Magically Induced Headaches, The Sleeping Guide, Sleeping Maladies, Sleeping Remedies: The Best-selling Sequel To Sleeping Maladies, Sleeping Spells For Sleepyheads and, finally and inexplicably, the transcript of While You Were Sleeping.  
  
He was looking quizzically through it as Hermione came back to the table and started throwing more books on the table.  
  
"These are all I could find on sleeping." She said, sounding disappointed at her haul.  
  
Harry tried to see her over the mountain she'd created and gave up.  
  
"I'll just...get started then..." he said, bleakly.  
  
They spent the next hour flipping through books, with the occasional gasp and subsequent click of tongue in disappointment. They found out many things but none applied to Harry's situation. None of the sleeping spells mentioned dreams, as magically-induced sleep was dreamless; and the dream books were all about interpretation, stuff that Hermione turned up her nose at, reminders of Professor Trelawney's lessons making her snort in disgust as she flipped through the book. When the pile had been reduced substantially, she looked over at Harry, going to suggest continuing their search some other day, and saw that he was asleep. He was talking in his sleep, and his face was contorted in what looked like severe pain. She pursed her lips and leaned closer to hear, hoping for some sort of clue.  
  
"Oh, yeah, right there..."  
  
Hermione's eyes widened. She made a small, indignant sound in her throat and got up. But what she heard next made her stop.  
  
"...Draco..."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Hermione and Harry were making their way back to the portrait hole. Hermione had sat for nearly half an hour, doing nothing but watch with mounting confusion what was, unquestionably, Harry making love to Draco Malfoy. Then, when she couldn't take it any longer, she'd shook Harry and woken him up, only to be snapped at very grumpily. Harry had no recollection of the dream, but had a lingering feeling of pleasure and an acute emptiness. Hermione filled him in on what he was missing. Literally.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Hermione nodded. "You were. I heard you."  
  
Harry looked down. Then he noticed something and frowned.  
  
"But I'm not...you know....." He gestured almost poetically. They both blushed.  
  
"I know."  
  
Harry looked at her, horrified.  
  
"I didn't look for fun, you great idiot. I've been sitting here thinking, while you were...doing what you were doing. And I realised that if you didn't show any outwardly physical signs, then it wasn't...you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I mean, it wasn't a dream. That's why we haven't been able to find anything. Someone's been controlling you, but not through a dream. I don't understand it.we have to look up some more."  
  
Harry blanched.  
  
"Er...we could come back tomorrow." He looked up hopefully.  
  
Hermione wasn't listening. She was figuring out the next step.  
  
"We'll come back tomorrow. At night. That way we can check the Restricted Section. And we'll bring Ron, three heads are better than two."  
  
And so they made their way back to the Gryffindor common room. As they stepped past the portrait hole, both lost in their individual musings, Seamus came bounding up to them, all smiles. He pulled Harry away.  
  
"Hey. Can I have it back?"  
  
Harry blinked. Thinking that he'd lost control entirely, he asked, "Have what back?"  
  
Seamus lowered his voice urgently. "Oh, come on, Harry. I'm going down to the bathroom with Dean..." he let the sentence hang, expectantly.  
  
Harry felt like his brain was moving in slow-motion. "Right...and you want...er...what, again?"  
  
"The Revoicer!"  
  
"Well, I don't have it, do I?"  
  
Seamus gave him an exasperated look.  
  
"Look, this isn't the time to try to be funny. I need it back! They're going to finish any time now..."  
  
"Seamus!" Harry burst out, "I don't have it! And it's sick, what you're doing!"  
  
Seamus looked stunned. Then he muttered, "Look, just give it back."  
  
"I don't have it!  
  
"GIVE IT BACK!"  
  
"SEAMUS! I DON'T BLOODY HAVE IT!"  
  
Seamus jumped on top of Harry and wrestled him to the ground. Taken by surprise, Harry fell on the carpet with a loud thud, and Seamus pinned his arms down and started searching his pockets. To Harry's amazement, Seamus lifted off him seconds later with a silvery object held in his fist. The Revoicer. Harry gaped at him.  
  
Seamus gave him an odd look before striding out of the common room. Harry looked at Hermione, who shrugged helplessly. Library? She mouthed.  
  
And this time, Harry nodded.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"I don't understand!" Hermione said angrily, "I don't understand it at all." She stopped pacing and glared at Harry, who was lying on his bed. Ron sat beside him, still a little unable to accept that his best friend was...well. Dreaming about...Ron shifted uneasily. He didn't like to think of it. As long as Harry wasn't doing it of his own volition, Ron told himself, he thought he might just be able to swallow it. Harry was his friend. Harry needed him. It wasn't Harry's fault.  
  
They were back in the boy's dormitory, having had no success in the library. Hermione was, undoubtedly, made even more frustrated by that particular failure. It had never let her down before.  
  
Harry tried to fight the sleepiness that threatened to overcome him. It's Dark Magic, he told himself, I have to fight it...but even as he thought that, his eyes drifted shut.  
  
"Are you sleeping again? Harry! Get up! Open your eyes! Do you want another wet dream about Malfoy?  
  
He was beginning to think that was a pleasant alternative to her ranting. But he roused himself and sat up on the cushions. He looked at Ron, who had turned slightly green. Frustrated, Harry ran a hand through his hair.  
  
"I thought we'd agreed it wasn't dreams."  
  
Hermione sighed and threw herself down beside Harry. She buried her head in her hands. "Oh, Harry! What are we going to do?"  
  
Harry was suddenly very touched, and he felt bad that she and Ron were going through all this for him. He looked at her.  
  
"Thanks, Herm." She patted him on the arm.  
  
"And you, you great prat. Thanks." Harry punched Ron on the shoulder and smiled at him. Ron smiled back; he just managed to. Then his head came up.  
  
"Do you suppose," Ron said, in a very small, reluctant voice, "do you suppose Malfoy knows what's going on? I mean, he's in your dreams and everything..."  
  
Harry frowned. "He's definitely got something to do with it. But I don't know what."  
  
"Maybe we could ask him..." said Hermione, hopefully. Anything for a way out.  
  
Harry threw his arms up in disgust, tiredness making him cranky. "Oh, yeah. 'Hey Malfoy, I've been having these dreams where I'm kissing you, and I was wondering if you were casting some sort of evil spell, you know, to make me want to do you or something.' Yeah, Herm. That'll go down well."  
  
Hermione coloured. "I just want to find out what's happening. It's just...infuriating."  
  
She got up and walked around the room. Harry and Ron watched as she absently ran her hand over Neville's drapes, and then walked over to Seamus' drawers and opened it. Then her eyes widened. She picked up the Revoicer, and turned it over in her hands. Harry knew what she was thinking.  
  
"What do you suppose Seamus was on about?"  
  
"I don't know. I was with you in the library the whole time, how could I have borrowed it?"  
  
"Exactly. But Seamus wouldn't have any reason to lie about something like that." She bit her lip. "And, it was in your pocket."  
  
Harry frowned. He didn't understand how it could have got there. He'd tried to ask Seamus, but his dorm mate wasn't speaking to him, and Harry had actually understood a little of what Seamus was feeling. Telling Seamus to his face that what he'd been recording was sick had been rude, in a strange sense. They all knew it was, but no matter what, they should never cast judgement on each other. Like he'd betrayed him in some sort of boy-to-boy way.  
  
And, on cue, the door opened. Seamus walked in. The smile on his face vanished as he saw Harry, and then furthered into a frown as he saw Hermione holding his Revoicer.  
  
"Give that here." He said, not looking up at her.  
  
Hermione placed the Revoicer in his outstretched hand with a determined look on her face.  
  
"How did you know Harry had your Revoicer?"  
  
He raised his eyebrows. "He asked for it, of course."  
  
Harry protested. "No, I didn't."  
  
Seamus ignored him and spoke to Hermione. "Look, he came in while me and Ginny were playing cards. He asked me for the Revoicer, and I gave it to him, and he left. That's it. That's all there is to it. And now he's lying, for some reason. Maybe because he thinks what I get up to is sick."  
  
The last of this was muttered, but Harry caught it. His stomach suddenly felt funny.  
  
"Seamus, I'm sorry."  
  
Seamus glanced up.  
  
"I'm sorry for saying that, I didn't mean it. I really didn't. I can't...explain, but I'm really sorry. Can we...." Harry didn't know how to say it without it turning out slightly girly. "Can we be friends, again?"  
  
Seamus laughed at the phrasing, like Harry hoped he would. Harry grinned, too, and suddenly everything was alright again. Then Seamus looked suddenly uncomfortable.  
  
"Listen," Seamus said, "Could you erase the thing you recorded? I shouldn't have listened, only I thought it was my own stuff, and I heard it. I just...well, if you don't really need it, which I hope to god you don't, could you...?"  
  
Seamus trailed off, as if embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione and Ron exchange a startled look, but kept his eyes on Seamus.  
  
"Yeah...yeah sure..." Harry said, reaching out for the Revoicer. Was this what they'd been waiting for? A definite clue? What had he recorded? How could he have recorded it? This...new development only seemed to raise more questions, but perhaps it might answer some of them, too.  
  
"I'll...er...leave you to it, then. Just don't go nuts when I want it back."  
  
Seamus left quickly, not wanting to hear whatever it was Harry had recorded again.  
  
For the second time in his life, Harry watched the harmless-looking Revoicer nervously. Hermione and Ron did the same. Harry picked it up, and, heart in his throat, whispered, "Revoicera."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Oh yeah...ohhh that feels so good...yes..."  
  
And then a second voice.  
  
"Harry...oh, Harry..."  
  
For the tenth time, Harry Potter muttered "Revoicera". For the tenth time, Harry Potter listened to himself moaning Draco's name. Malfoy's name. For the tenth time, Harry avoided Ron's accusing glare. And for the tenth time, he felt a stab of arousal shiver through him.  
  
"So this actually happened?"  
  
Harry looked up at Hermione, who sat, white-faced, opposite him on the bed. This, it seemed, was too much for her. Dark Magic she could deal with, Sleeping potions, deadly Sleeping Spells, the works. But this was beyond her. She picked up the Revoicer and stroked it with her thumb.  
  
"I guess so," she said. "There's no other explanation."  
  
"But how could I have been here? How could I have spoken to Seamus? Ginny said she saw me, too."  
  
He sat there quietly, watching her. He didn't dare look at Ron. Hermione was chewing on her lower lip, thinking. Concentrating on something. He could almost hear the wheels turning. Then she looked up, blinked, and smacked herself on the forehead.  
  
"Oh..."  
  
The wheels reached grinding point, and then they turned to fine powder. Hermione turned and gaped at him and Ron. The she jumped off the bed and mumbled a string of words, the only audible of which was 'library', and rushed out of the dorm. Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged, and then ran after her.  
  
It took Harry a while to realise what had just happened. He contemplated going after them, mildly irritated that Hermione seemed to leave him out of her findings. Then he lay back, and sleep took him over.  
  
. 


	3. harry in the corner

.  
  
From inside the changing rooms they could hear the crowd going crazy. The team huddled. Harry was slumped against the wall of the showers. He was in no condition to fly; he'd slept through breakfast, and Ron had had to pull him out of bed just in time to get to the field with the other players before the match proper began.  
  
Colin Creevey - who, to everyone's immense surprise, had unlocked serious flying talents the year before - knocked urgently on the door.  
  
"Harry! We have to go. Madam Hooch is calling." He paused for a reply. None came. "Harry?" he called more desperately, "Harry, please, open the door!"  
  
Ron looked around wildly. He was torn - he knew Harry couldn't fly, he'd probably fall on his face and kill himself trying to walk out onto the pitch, but he also desperately needed to see Gryffindor win this game. Ron was one of the Beaters on the team - the other was a burly third-year who flew like...well, he flew like a Bludger, really, there was just no other way to describe it. Alfie Knotch seemed to actually understand Bludgers, the way they whizzed through the air, which was why he was so good at getting them out of the way. It was actually quite scary, Ron often thought. Knotch had a knack for interpreting their swerves and directions, and intercepted them before they got anywhere. But, like Harry said, as long as it worked, and was within the boundaries...well, anything goes, really. Their two Chasers were Ginny Weasley and Susan Diggs, a friend of Ginny's; Bert Finnings was their Keeper.  
  
Harry Potter was their new captain. Harry Potter, however, was also currently in the shower cubicle, for all intents and purposes half-dead. Ron buried his head in his hands and groaned. Then -  
  
"Harry!" Colin sounded high-pitched, relieved, "Quick, quick, get into your robes, we've got to go!"  
  
Ron looked up, Colin was dancing around Harry's feet. Feet that dragged listlessly along the ground as Harry shuffled himself towards his broom. Ron stood.  
  
"Are you sure you can fly?"  
  
Harry gave a small smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."  
  
Ron didn't know what to do, whether he should encourage Harry by helping him with his Quidditch robes, or tell him not to be stupid and stay in the changing room and get a lie-down, tell him that going out there was suicide in his state. In the end, he just watched as Harry got his things on and then set off in front of the others as they flew out onto the pitch. The Slytherins were already in position. Harry led them up to the middle of the field, managing not to let his hands shake too much, or wobble too dangerously on his broom. He could see Hermione in the stands, waving at him a little sombrely - she had tried to get to him, to persuade him not to fly today. She'd spent the night in the library, and she'd rushed back with her findings the minute she'd woken up in the morning. She'd come down to the Great Hall and not found Harry there.  
  
In truth, Hermione didn't know whether or not what she'd figured out was less or more dangerous than what they'd been counting on. It certainly wasn't life-threatening, but it was definitely more...permanent than what they'd foreseen. And she didn't like the implications. Or what it looked like Harry would have to do.  
  
Harry waved back, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach and the headache pounding through his tired brain. He had resolved in the shower not to let his team down, he would get the Snitch, or he would, as his own captain had once told him - admittedly with unfavourable results; he'd ended up in the hospital wing (but they'd won, that time, Harry tried to focus on that) - die trying. Then he looked up and came within inches of Malfoy's face, and he nearly lost his grip.  
  
Oh god, thought Harry, he's just in front of me. Nose to nose with Malfoy, secret sharer of his most intimate thoughts. His subconscious. He's so beautiful, Harry thought. If only he could remember...perhaps then he wouldn't feel so empty. If he had something concrete to put to the fleeting feeling of pleasure when he opened his eyes, perhaps his anguish would be more bearable. Malfoy was smiling, and not in a nasty way. It was more...competitive. Cheeky. Harry felt a bit thrown by this unprecedented boyishness. The black Stain lingered still on his hair, as if unwilling to leave, making it look a sexy, dirty blonde under the sun.  
  
"Ready, Potter?" Malfoy whispered softly, so that only he could hear, "...because here I come."  
  
Harry swallowed. If he only knew. Malfoy grinned as the whistle blew, and they were off, seven green blurs, and six red ones. Six, because Harry was rooted to his spot, unable to take in Malfoy's grin.  
  
Malfoy didn't grin, surely. It wasn't in his nature.  
  
"Harry! Harry, move! What's the matter with you?"  
  
Ron was yelling at him from the skies, Harry looked up and saw him, red hair oddly contrasting with the red Quidditch robes. He looked worried, and a little angry. Harry forced his broom upwards, getting back some of his earlier resolve. Don't let Gryffindor down. You can heal. The House standings can't. He wasn't sure if he was thinking clearly, but it seemed the logical thing to do, at that point. So Harry concentrated on not falling off his broom, and looking for the elusive little flutter of gold.  
  
Above him, Susan threw the Quaffle to Ginny, who was attacked by both Bludgers at the same time, and panicked as she glided away with a tiny squeal. To her credit, however, she kept her head enough to hang on to the Quaffle, and as she careened off-balance, managed to align her broom such that she hurtled straight at the terrified Slytherin Keeper, who flew out of her way. She went straight on, through the goal-posts, Quaffle tucked safely in her arms, and Gryffindor was thirty points up. The stands decked in red went wild. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
He flew higher up on his broom, feeling a rush of welcome delight at this dizzying height. He scanned the field as closely as his dulled sense would allow, then decided that flying closer to the ground would be wiser. He wouldn't be able to spot the Snitch from here, his eyes were starting to blur. At least there was the small chance of the Snitch flying near enough to him to be seen, if he was nearer down. As he descended, he felt Malfoy follow. Too tired to play mind games, he turned.  
  
"I haven't seen the Snitch, Malfoy." He said, brushing hair out of his eyes, "so don't follow m-"  
  
But he stopped as he looked up, as he saw the speck of gold over Malfoy's shoulder, just on the other half of the field. His eyes lit up, and Malfoy noticed. He turned. He saw.  
  
Harry looked at him, and he looked back; for a second their eyes met. Then they were off, flying together in perfect unison, side by side, nudging their brooms forward at the same breakneck speed. Harry felt Malfoy's body press against his own, and their legs were tangled, moving against each other. Malfoy felt soft and warm; Harry felt flushed. He could feel the way Malfoy's body tensed when he altered his direction slightly, or when he tried to gain speed. Harry tried to inch closer to Malfoy without seeming like he was, and, not quite thinking clearly (or so he said when he looked back later), shifted his weight to his left, to lean against Malfoy's warmth. Malfoy looked around at him, momentarily thrown, and then regained his wits.  
  
"Not here, Harry." he hissed, and moved away, breaking the contact.  
  
Harry, unable to balance, fell.  
  
And as he fell, he wondered why Draco had said what he'd said, and why the name Harry seemed to sit so comfortably on his lips. He thought he heard Draco call out his name, but he wasn't sure. He felt himself hit the ground, and then he knew no more.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Ron, you need to get a shower..."  
  
"But he's - not - awake..."  
  
"Sitting here isn't going to help, he needs the sleep..."  
  
Muffled voices.  
  
Very slowly, and with a great deal of pain, Harry roused himself. He groaned. As much as the rest of his body hurt, however, his mind felt clearer than it had been in a long, long while. He knew he was in the hospital wing. It was still light outside.  
  
Ron, Ginny and Hermione came into focus above him. They each wore different expressions: Ginny's of extreme relief, Hermione's of worry, and Ron's...Harry closed his eyes. Ron looked like he could kill someone.  
  
"W...what happened?" he croaked.  
  
There was no answer, just exchanged looks. Ron was gripping the side of the bed so hard his knuckles were white.  
  
"What happened, Herm?" he asked, in a slightly steadier voice. Ginny cracked.  
  
"You fell off your broom, you idiot!" she wailed, tears starting to fall, "you knew you couldn't fly, and you still went and flew, and look where that got you! Oh, Harry..."  
  
She flung herself at him, hugging him very hard. Harry patted her back awkwardly, motioning with his other hand for Hermione to help.  
  
Hermione shushed her. "Ginny, why don't you and Ron go tell Madam Pomfrey that Harry's awake? She'll be wanting to come in and see him."  
  
As they left the room, Ron's anger like a tangible force, Ginny's sniffles echoing off the stone, Hermione pulled up a chair and sat by Harry's bed.  
  
"What's going on, Hermione?"  
  
Hermione bit her lip. "I don't really know where to start." She paused thoughtfully. "Firstly, you've been in here three days, sleeping. You broke three ribs and your arm; Madam Pomfrey mended them. But you wouldn't wake after. Did you know that? Do you know why?"  
  
"No, but I..." Harry trailed off. "Three days?!"  
  
"Yes. You've been asleep. Sleeping off all the tiredness, I suppose. Making up for sleep you haven't been getting for the past week or so."  
  
Harry frowned. "I've been sleeping alright the past week. That's what had us confused. We've been over this before." A thought crossed his mind. "Oh, Herm, what happened at the match?"  
  
Hermione looked worried. "I don't know..."  
  
"What d'you mean, you don't know? What happened after I fell?"  
  
"Well, it was really strange. Malfoy..." she gestured helplessly.  
  
"What? Malfoy - what?"  
  
"Well, he went after you. He yelled your name, he yelled 'Harry', and then he flew away from the Snitch and tried to get to you before you hit the ground, but he was too late. Then...then he called off the game."  
  
"Malfoy flew away from the Snitch?" Harry said, dumbly, "and he called off the game?"  
  
She nodded. "And he insisted on seeing you to the hospital wing. He was the one who brought you up here, with Madam Hooch."  
  
"What? But why?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "I don't know."  
  
Harry sank his head back into the pillow. "Have we found out anything about the tiredness?" He looked at her hopefully.  
  
She nodded. "Actually, I have. I was in the library before the match, and I've had the time to confirm some of my suspicions the past three days. Ron's been sitting by your side the whole time, he was too worried to do anything."  
  
Harry smiled. "Why's he so angry?"  
  
She looked uncomfortable. "It's got something to do with what I found, actually...Harry, you haven't been sleeping at all, the past week. That's one thing I figured out in the library."  
  
"Oh, Herm...you saw me asleep. You saw me, you said you heard me..."  
  
"Yes, but Seamus saw you awake, didn't he? At the same time."  
  
Harry rubbed his temple. "I don't understand."  
  
Hermione sighed impatiently. "I told you, I don't know where to start..." she tapped her finger on the side of the bed. "Ok. Ok, maybe I should show instead of tell. I'm actually not very sure of this myself, so maybe if we both saw it, we'd understand a little better."  
  
She stood up. Harry felt a little nervous. Hermione went round to the other side of the bed and held his arms down. Harry began to sweat.  
  
"Er...Hermione?"  
  
She ignored him.  
  
"Ok, close your eyes." Harry did as he was told. "Now, I want you to imagine the far corner of this room. I want you to imagine...well, imagine Malfoy sitting there. Got it?"  
  
"Yeah...yeah, I got it."  
  
"Good. Now. Imagine...imagine that he's doing...er...doing something that makes you want to go over to him, more than anything in the world."  
  
Harry blushed, but did as he was told.  
  
"Ok."  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows at the speed with which Harry complied. Thankfully, his eyes were shut.  
  
"Now, go over to him."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Go over to him."  
  
"Er...you're holding me down. Oh, wait, you mean in my imagination, or you mean really go over to him? I mean, he's not there, but if he was...but you're holding me down. I don't understand, Herm, I'm sorry..."  
  
"Just shut up, and go over to him. Do what you want to do, you've done it before. You know what to do."  
  
Harry was highly skeptical of her teaching methods up to this point, but once again, did as he was told. He closed his eyes, and sank into his consciousness, feeling the darkness grow around him, and hearing the silence build up until he couldn't bear it...this all seemed incredibly familiar, and Harry was reminded of mornings he'd felt like this...the darkness grew, and grew, in intensity as well as volume, and swallowed him up, swallowed him until he couldn't breathe, and his one thought was this: get to Draco. He saw Draco's face, He was touching Draco's skin, breathing Draco's scent. All around him the darkness persisted, his feet landed on solid ground, he felt stone under his fingertips - and then all that was gone as he sank back into soft bedsheets - but all he saw was blackness, until suddenly -  
  
Harry opened his eyes. And gasped.  
  
Standing in the far corner of the room, with a slightly surprised look on his face, Harry in the corner turned, and faced Harry on the bed.  
  
. 


	4. the deepest desires

.  
  
Harry on the bed stared.  
  
"You're..." He trailed off. His mouth felt very dry.  
  
"You."  
  
Harry in the corner had the grace to look sheepish.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry on the bed turned to look at Hermione. Then he suddenly realised that he was looking at her profile. He looked behind him, felt around for confirmation. He was standing in the corner.  
  
He thought of lying on the bed. And suddenly he was.  
  
"Fucking hell." Said Harry in the corner, just as Harry on the bed said 'Oh, gods." Both Harrys groaned, running their hands through their hair at the exact same time.  
  
Hermione looked stunned, and almost...excited. Her eyes darted from one Harry to the other, as if unable to take it in.  
  
"What are you looking so bloody startled about? It was you who suggested this." Harry in the corner snapped.  
  
Harry in the bed gave Harry in the corner a severe look. "Look, leave her out of it. She's been a great help. You're the one who's causing all the problems."  
  
Harry in the corner walked over to Harry in the bed, lips lifting into a soft smile.  
  
"Ah, no. You see, I am you. So effectively, you've been causing your own headaches." And with a wink, he fell forward onto Harry on the bed. Harry on the bed heard a rushing sound, and the strangest sensation of merging with - himself. And then there was only one Harry left in the room.  
  
He blinked. And then, for no reason at all, he started to laugh.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Sorry, run that by me again?"  
  
Hermione sighed, for the hundredth time in the past hour or so. Now that they were back once again in the Gryffindor common room, where they had finally found some peace from the endless stream of visitors Harry had been getting, Hermione was trying to explain the situation. Ron had gotten over his disgust, but still looked at Harry like he was going to explode or go mad for going anywhere near Malfoy.  
  
"Oh, for goodness' sakes. It's really quite simple. Just pay attention. The theory of Simul-Apparation isn't magical, it's sort of...innate."  
  
"Not magical?" Ron was having trouble coming to terms with everything. "Not magical?! Are you seriously telling me Muggles can split themselves in two and walk around like -"  
  
"No, you idiot! Just listen, will you?" she said angrily. She was very, very tired. "Ok. According to Freud - yes, a Muggle," she snapped, exasperated, at Ron's skeptical raise of eyebrows, "there are three levels to our personalities," she said, hesitantly, sounding either not certain of what she was saying, or not certain if they would understand. Harry thought it was more likely the latter. "The Id, the Ego, and the Superego."  
  
She paused for effect.  
  
"The Ego is sort of - the face you put on for everybody. What you think is acceptable for everyone. The Id, on the other hand, is your inner desires. Or, actually, your instincts. What you really want. The hedonist within you, I suppose. Seeking pleasure, regardless of consequence."  
  
She broke this up into short sentences for better digestion. Another pause. Then she continued.  
  
"The Superego, generally, sort of develops along with your Id and your Ego. It's sort of like - your conscience."  
  
Ron blinked. Twice.  
  
"Alright. You're a child. You see an apple in a store. The Id wants to steal it - so you steal it. Then you're scolded. The next time you see an apple in the store, the Id still says 'go for it', but the Ego stills the instinct because your mother is there. Over time, your Superego learns that stealing apples is a bad thing, and you no longer need the Ego to differentiate between right and wrong."  
  
'So you see, Harry, you've somehow learnt how to Simul-Apparate, something not many wizards and witches can do. It's very, very advanced magic, and most records place it under the Dark Arts. Basically it's a sort of concentration charm you put on yourself where you separate yourself into two, but usually what happens is a little of each aspect of yourself gets put into each form of you, giving you two - diluted - versions of yourself. I've read up on it in the library, it's not dangerous, there's no splinching or anything, because whatever's left behind is left in one of the yous you create, but you currently have no control over your own powers, which is why it's affecting you so badly.'  
  
Harry nodded, beginning to understand.  
  
"My guess is that Voldemort left it behind along with your ability to speak Parceltongue. He probably left lots of things behind, only you haven't discovered them yet. And, because of your unstable magical abilities, you've somehow managed to Simul-Apparate out two different aspects of your personality, your Id and your Ego. But they're both still you - only your Id seems to have run amuck somewhat." She smiled.  
  
"You've been tired because you haven't been sleeping at all. Your Simul-Apparation has been running around the castle at night while you're asleep - Seamus and Ginny met your Id, that day. And everything else has just been a result of lack of sleep - your headaches, dizzy spells. It's not Dark magic after all, we were looking in all the wrong places."  
  
Ron looked like he had something nasty in his stomach. He also seemed to be stuck somewhere at the beginning of the conversation.  
  
"Wait. So - the thing you want most is to - get it on with...with Malfoy?"  
  
Hermione ignored him, but Harry felt a thrill run through him as he admitted the truth of Ron's words to himself. Then it hit him. Malfoy knew. Malfoy knew about his dreams, only they weren't dreams. And he'd lived them, Malfoy had lived them. Malfoy had been intimate with him before, for real. He didn't know why it hadn't come to him sooner; presumably he'd been too caught up in Hermione' discovery. But, oh. Oh. He'd made love to Draco Malfoy. For real. And Malfoy obviously hadn't disliked it. He'd...come to care for him.  
  
Hermione looked at him; she saw that he was frowning. She knew his next question would be -  
  
"But - what do I have to do? I can't possibly carry on like this."  
  
Hermione felt her heat pounding. She had spent a long time thinking about this. She tried to make her voice light as she delivered what rang like a death knell in the quiet room.  
  
"Well, Harry. It's fairly simple. You give in," she said, emphasizing each word, "to your deepest desires."  
  
. 


	5. learning the rules

DBZVelena (and everyone else really; perverts!, the lot): sorry, no lemon - yet. Maybe a sort of sugary lemonade. am I -allowed- to put a lemon up, anyway? the HATTER, if you're back: *it's not finished*. ____________________________________________________________________________ _______  
  
.  
  
Harry decided not to act on his 'deepest desires' for now. If anything, he went out of his way to avoid Malfoy. It would simply complicate matters, and matters weren't exactly looking too simple as they were. Ron was still treating him with a wary mixture of distrust and disgust, and Harry didn't entirely believe - didn't entirely want to believe - that, deep down, he felt anything for Malfoy. Surface lust was something he already had problems dealing with, but - deepest desires - now, that was a different ballgame altogether. Harry wasn't certain he wanted to play.  
  
He spent his evenings trying to get the better of his Simul-Apparating powers. Straight after dinner he would slip into the deserted Charms classroom on the third floor and practice, always alone, speaking to his Simul-Apparation until the grey dawn brought with it the stirrings of the castle, and then he would return to the dorm and sleep until Ron woke him. He didn't want Ron and Hermione to come along on these evenings - he wanted, he thought, with a cheerless smile, some quality time with himself. A himself he didn't know, didn't dare to know. Gaining control of this particular power was odd, though. It was essentially trying to put his Id on a leash, only now his Id had a form. Trying to bend a person to his will was hardly the same thing as trying to master a spell.  
  
Ron kept reminding him that it was himself he was trying to harness. Something that didn't have a right to be outside of him, anyway, and that should have no qualms about going back. But Ron didn't spend the time Harry did with - well, himself; Ron never sat in the classroom and stared at an eerie projection of himself, staring right back. Ron had never had the conversations he had with his Id. He was beginning to wonder if he really wanted to harness it at all. Whether he should give in to it, as Hermione had advised him to do. Muggles generally regarded people who gave themselves up to their Ids as weak-minded and undisciplined, but Harry knew that different rules applied in the wizarding world. In the wizarding world, your instincts kept you alive, and your deepest desires were the source of your power.  
  
For now, though, Harry bided his time, convincing himself he was actually doing something to improve the situation. It was interesting - unnerving as hell, but interesting - to talk to his Simul-Apparation. It was like the journey to self-discovery - only somewhat less...spiritual.  
  
"So...what do you think of Draco?"  
  
Harry looked up at the question. They were in the Charms classroom, Id lounging on the windowsill, Harry sitting quietly against the wall.  
  
"I don't know, exactly. Pretty much what you think of him - I mean, it's probably your influence that makes me feel about him...the way I do."  
  
"Really?" familiar eyebrows shot up. "And how is that?"  
  
"You know."  
  
"No, I don't think I do, actually, not with your...moralistic colourings. How do you feel?"  
  
"I just...get funny inside when I see him. But I'd never act on it. Not without you."  
  
"But you feel like that? Funny inside?"  
  
"But," Harry repeated firmly, "I'd never act on it."  
  
Harry's Simul-Apparation threw him a pitying look, and turned away from him, muttering something vehement under his breath, and they fell silent. Harry was beginning to think that he really didn't like himself very much. Then the figure silhouetted against the windowsill spoke again.  
  
"You can't hide anything from me, you know. I'm inside your head. You know he likes us, don't you? But that sulk really isn't very attractive. He likes it when you kiss him just behind the ear. Did you know that? Or don't you remember?" He was looking very smug.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
His Simul-Apparation laughed.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Harry, Ron and Hermione were walking out of the Potions classroom, Ron complaining about one point deduction or other - he was trying to keep count; Harry had run out of fingers and toes. Snape had been particularly brutal today - still smarting, Harry reckoned, from the disaster of a lesson the week before. He'd held the class back for nearly twenty minutes, and they were already late for Transfiguration. Hermione and Ron were laughing at something, and Harry trailed a little behind, trying to stuff his wand back in his pocket so that he could carry his books properly.  
  
As he set his books on the ground, he tensed. There was a strange sound coming from behind him, like the rustle of cloth on stone. And then unseen hands reached out of the darkness and wrapped around his waist. He was dragged roughly against the uneven walls of the dungeons into a side corridor. Before he could let out so much as a whimper, soft, warm, liquid lips were pressed against his. Harry froze in shock. Hands travelled up his waist and into his shirtfront, nails almost brutally scraping against his skin as arms wrapped around his neck.  
  
"Draco?!"  
  
"Mmmm. You've been avoiding me, Potter."  
  
Murmured words against warm kisses. Harry didn't move, couldn't move.  
  
"Have you thought of me?"  
  
Lips spidering down his jaw.  
  
"I thought you'd come after you got out of the hospital wing."  
  
Teeth nipping lightly at soft skin.  
  
"But you didn't."  
  
His mocking tone didn't quite manage to touch his last words with as much conviction as he'd intended. Harry thought he sounded almost - sad. For a second he was convinced Malfoy wasn't just playing a game.  
  
Then the moment was past, and Draco was sliding his lips upwards again, up Harry's neck, over his chin, and then teasingly, maddeningly, at the corner of his lips, never quite touching them.  
  
"Draco..."  
  
"Shh....don't say anything. Just..."  
  
"...Kiss me." Harry finished the sentence, and, not quite thinking about what he was doing, caught Draco's lower lip between his teeth and pulled gently. Draco opened his mouth and let Harry's tongue slip between his lips, and gave him his own, exploring Harry's mouth with the softest of caresses. Harry was lost. He moved his mouth over Draco's, pressing his body nearer, rubbing against Draco, playing with the light hair at the back of his neck.  
  
"So gentle, Potter?" Draco breathed, tilting his head back to facilitate Harry's exploration.  
  
Harry paused. Mid-way to Draco's collarbone, he stopped. Struck by the reminder of a different Harry, who behaved differently, who was more aggressive - who, above all, wasn't him. Oh, god. What was he doing? He would - he could - overcome this.  
  
Harry jerked out of Draco's embrace, and, without another word, turned and flew down the corridor, leaving the other boy standing there, staring after him.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Harry burst into Transfiguration and sat in a corner, away from Ron and Hermione, shivering. He didn't hear Professor Mcgonagall asking him why he was so late, didn't see the look of relief on his friend's faces at the sight of him - looks that quickly turned to concern as they took in his flushed face. He was oblivious to everything except the pounding of his heart.  
  
Oh, god. Oh, god. Without warning, it had just snuck up on him, just like that. And he had given in. He'd given in to his desires, and it had been - oh. It had been wonderful. He could still feel Draco's hands on his skin, burning a path downwards. He closed his eyes and groaned.  
  
He tried to talk to Id. Nothing. He supposed he was angry at him for turning away, just when things were getting good, as he would say. And things had been getting very, very good. Why had he pulled away? If only he'd stayed, if only he'd told Draco...could he tell Draco? Could he -  
  
"If you would be so good as to give us your attention, Mr Potter - I'm certain you'll find this lesson useful."  
  
Harry jerked out of his thoughts. Mcgonagall had her stern face on.  
  
"Sorry, Professor." He mumbled. He drew out his wand and poked at the slug on his desk, mind in a whirl.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
The next morning dawned bright and cold - not quite cold enough to merit snow, but certainly cold enough for Harry to want to stay in bed, where the warmth of his own body seemed concentrated as he huddled his blankets over himself. He had decided to avoid any sort of interaction with Malfoy, until he'd gotten his Simul-Apparation under control. Hermione still believed that the only way out - the best way out, at least - was to let himself go; at least that way he could be sure he was in control of his own actions, whether or nor the situation was a good one, and especially if it wasn't. But Harry wasn't sure if he could bear the consequences.  
  
He tried to go back to sleep, but Seamus and Dean were making too much noise, laughing and shrieking about something or other, so, with a huge sigh, Harry grabbed Ron and dragged him down to the Great Hall for breakfast.  
  
Harry took a seat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, Ron's head drooping into his cereal bowl beside him, and looked up just as Draco sat down on the opposite end. Harry averted his eyes and promptly caught sight of a yellowed piece of parchment sitting on his plate, smoking slightly at the sides, as though it had just appeared, magically.  
  
"What's that?" Ron asked, cradling his head in his hands, as though it would fall if he didn't support it.  
  
"I don't know. The owls haven't come yet, have they?"  
  
Curious, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. In the top left corner, in tiny handwriting, were written two words:  
  
  
  
Ice Queen.  
  
  
  
It was an elegant, simple hand. Realisation sank in. Harry looked up.  
  
Directly opposite him, Draco caught his eye and winked.  
  
Harry stared at him in amazement. He'd expected Draco to be at least a little angry at him for his calling a callous halt to their - activities. He looked down at the note again, and was surprised to feel...yes, relief. Then he smiled. It was a challenge, Harry knew. He liked this game they were playing. He liked that Draco liked him. He realised writing was much easier than speaking to Draco face to face - emboldened by the anonymity of the indirect interaction, he wrote back.  
  
  
  
Ice queen, eh? I can think of a hundred different things we could do with ice, sweetheart.  
  
  
  
Harry muttered a Levitating charm and floated the piece of parchment towards the Slytherin table. Ron's confused expression cleared, and then contorted, and he went back to his breakfast as calmly as he could.  
  
He immediately regretted his brazenness when the smile faded from Draco's face. Maybe the endearment had been too much. Harry was beginning to see that he really didn't understand their relationship - wasn't he supposed to be playful? Aggressive? He waited, heart pounding, while Draco replied and sent the note back. He watched as Draco whipped out his wand and mouthed something; the note disappeared and reappeared in Harry's hands. Harry tried to hide his surprise. He read the note, disappointed and slightly stung by the shortness of the reply.  
  
  
  
The whole school just saw you floating a note to me, Harry.  
  
  
  
Draco had effectively withdrawn. Harry decided not to reply. He sat with his eyes fixed determinedly downwards, wishing he could disappear into his porridge. No better yet - he wished Malfoy would, then he wouldn't have to deal with him.  
  
He started. Another note poofed into his hands:  
  
  
  
Sulking, Potter? It really isn't very attractive.  
  
  
  
Harry frowned. Those words seemed uncomfortably familiar. He remembered a grey classroom, the smug voice of his Simul-Apparation. He still had trouble accepting that it was himself - something Hermione had cautioned him very strongly against. She'd said it was precisely his reluctance to acknowledge his Id that forced it to take a form of its own.  
  
  
  
Interesting. Just how attractive do you find me, ordinarily?  
  
  
  
He sent the note back, this time by Draco's method, and watched with glee as, across the room, a smile touched soft lips. Then the note came back, on top of the porridge. Harry snatched it away, to the surprise of the startled first-years opposite him. Ron carried on with his cereal, trying to look as though nothing unusual was going on.  
  
  
  
Why don't you wipe that sullen look off your face and come here and find out?  
  
  
  
Harry was shamelessly thrilled. Then another piece of parchment landed on his lap, the handwriting was messier, as though Draco had been in a hurry.  
  
  
  
Forget that. Get out of the Great Hall - now. Meet me outside the Potions classroom.  
  
  
  
He read this and smiled, slightly nervously. Well, Harry - a little voice came into his head from nowhere, and from everywhere all at once - you're finally going to get some.  
  
Harry shuddered, and got to his feet.  
  
. 


End file.
